Of Honour and Desire
by Bowling4Clegane
Summary: Sandor Clegane is surprised when the sister of his childhood best friend turns up in King's Landing with a proposition: if he helps her kill her husband, she'll be his for a night. If only it was that easy... Sandor/OFC romance. Rated M because it's Game of Thrones.
1. Dogs of War

_The two boys giggled as they ran out of the building, clutching the small wooden toys._

_Sitting between two oil burning braziers, the six-year-olds began to play with the painted figurines. Sandor had claimed the little wooden knight for himself, while Nikolas had claimed the carved dragon. _

"_Are you sure it's okay to take these?" Nikolas whispered to his friend, his big brown eyes wide. He was scared of Gregor. Despite being 12, the boy was bigger than his father, and meaner than a bear._

"_We're just borrowing them," Sandor shrugged. "Besides, Gregor said he's too old to play with toys."_

"_Nikky," a small voice called. "Sando?"_

_The boy huffed loudly. "Stupid 'Dora," he sighed. His three-year-old sister was always desperate to play with him and his friend. "I better go."_

_Sandor nodded slowly, waving his friend off before going back to playing with the knight. His brother was a squire, and soon would take his vows. Sandor couldn't wait til he was old enough to become a knight. _

_He was so busy playing he didn't hear his brother approach until the shadow fell. Sandor looked up with a grin, but his face quickly fell when he saw the expression on Gregor's face. _

"_I was just playing," he whimpered, as his elder brother grabbed him by the hair. _He's going to beat me, _Sandor thought. But instead of hitting him, or undoing his belt, Gregor thrust Sandor' face forward, into the burning brazier._

_The pain was awful, and Sandor didn't recognise the tortured screams that came out his mouth. Worst still was the smell of his burning squeezed his eyes tightly closed and prayed to the Seven._

_His screams became louder as the pain grew, and he kicked, trying to move. Gregor was strong though, and held the boy in place. A servant tried to prise Gregor off but the large boy shook him off. It took three servants to pull Gregor back and by that time half of his little brother's face was burned down to the bone._

"_What's going on?" Their father's voice boomed as he stormed out the house, a servant scuttling behind him._

"_He stole," Gregor growled - the first words he had said since he arrived. "I punished him."_

_Their father turned his eyes to his youngest son, who had now fainted. The sight of his boy's face made him feel sick._

"_Bring him inside," he hissed. "No one can know Gregor did this. Selene - call the Maester. Tell him...tell him a candle fell on Sandor's bedding during the night. And if anyone breathes a word of what really happened, I'll flog you to death."_

_As the servants muttered their promises, no one saw a pair of small blue eyes blink, or a small hand wipe away the tears and snot that covered her face. "Sando," she whimpered._

* * *

**TWENTY YEARS LATER**

"Well struck, dog," Joffrey hooted, as his sworn shield left his opponent for dead.

Sandor removed his helm and walked back to the platform upon which the Prince sat, beside the broad King Robert and Queen Cersei.

The announcer looked down at his parchment. "The freerider Ser Lantell of the Westerlands."

Sandor's head snapped up. Lantell. There were only two Lantells he knew of fighting age - could it be his old friend Nikolas had come to King's Landing?

His hand went to the hilt of his sword as he watched the melee, trying to ignore the King's half-drunk chuckles as Nikolas swung his sword gracefully to defeat Baelish's freerider. Leaving the man alive but wounded, the knight bowed low to the King, Queen and crown Prince.

The knight moved to the announcer and whispered in his ear.

"Ser Lantell has requested to fight the Hound," the announcer revealed, shock in his voice.

King Robert turned to his son. "It's your name day. What do you say, boy?"

Joffrey leaned forward in his throne, taking in the small figure before him. "Since Lantell is sworn to my dear mother's house...I'll allow it if my dog agrees."

It felt like all eyes turned to Sandor as he nodded his head.

Pulling on his dog's head helm, he sloped down to the ground. Before he could utter a word of greeting to his old friend, the King bellowed "Fight!"

A sword swung at Sandor's head and he had to act quickly to block it. _Is that how it is?_ He thought with a wry smile, _well, I won't go easy on you either, you old fuck._

After Gregor had burned him, Nikolas and Sandor had been even more inseparable. They began to practice with wooden swords, then on to metal ones, with plans to become as big and strong as Sandor's elder brother.

Then came Robert's Rebellion. Aged 12, Sandor joined the battles, while Nikolas stayed home. The pair hadn't seen each other since.

Nikolas may have known Sandor's older moves, but a lot of battles and fights over the years had taught him that fighting styles didn't matter - strength did, and he was currently winning as his old friend began to flag.

"Had enough?" The bigger man laughed for what felt like the first time in years as he rested his sword tip on his opponent's neck.

He looked at the eyes of his partner, expecting to see brown orbs laughing back at him. Instead he was staring into a pair of twinkling blue eyes. "Not by a long shot, _Sando," _came the clear response.

In shock, Sandor's sword fell down to his side. "Isadora? The fuck?"

She took this opportunity to push him onto the ground, before bowing with a big flourish.

As Sandor, the royals and the courtyard watched with their mouths open, Isadora walked away.

* * *

The whole of King's Landing was buzzing by nightfall about how an unknown knight had beaten the Hound. Sandor was only grateful that it wasn't common knowledge that he'd been beaten by a girl...even if she had cheated.

He spent the next day searching for the armour clad woman, and asking around for Ser Lantell, to no avail.

He had almost given up when he heard a familiar laugh. He wheeled around to see a lady in a sea green dress politely laughing with an older gentleman. Sandor stormed over and placed a large hand on her shoulder.

As she span round, he scowled down at her, taking in the intricate plaits in her dirty blonde hair, that stupid mole on her cheekbone and those mischief filled blue eyes.

"The fuck are you playing at?" He growled.

"_Ser!" _The older man said, shocked, before looking up at Sandor and gulping.

Isadora, however, grinned for a second before quickly composing her face to reply "Hello, Sandor."

The man, slightly recovered from his shock, hissed loudly "You didn't tell me you knew the Hound!" His hand clutched at Isadora's wrist, nails digging in.

Isadora looked down, as if chagrined. "Sandor is an old friend of my brother." She paused and looked between the two.

"Where are my manners? William, this is Sandor Clegane. Sandor, this is Willian Peckledon. My husband."

* * *

As the old man wittered on about how his grandson Josmyn was soon to become squire for Jamie Lannister, Sandor just stared at the girl he had grown up with.

Admittedly, it had been over 12 years since they had seen each other last, but the skinny nine year old he knew would never have married a man three times her age without a fight.

"My dear," she said, interrupting her husband's story, "I'm afraid that glass of wine at lunch has tired me out. I know you must mingle, but I do believe that I need to lie down. Sandor can escort me back to our rooms safely."

_Oh, can I? _He thought, but nodded in acquiescence like a good dog.

Before her husband could even open his mouth to respond, Isadora wrapped her arm through the tall soldier's and began to drag him towards the castle.

"What in seven fucking hells are you playing at, girl?" Sandor muttered through gritted teeth.

She shot him a warning glance, and picked up her pace.

It was only once they arrived at her room and closed the door behind that she squealed loudly and jumped on the taller man, giving him an unexpected hug.

"The fuck?" He demanded.

"Oh, I know. I didn't mean to fool you at the fight. But I get so little freedom and when I saw you, I couldn't resist!" She shrugged, as if it was no big deal.

"What are you doing here? And with a man old enough to be Brandon the fucking Builder?"

Isadora sighed and flopped on the bed. "That's where I was hoping you could help. It turns out an arranged marriage is not for me."

Sandor's eyes narrowed.

"How would you feel about helping me kill him?"

He barked a laugh. "The fuck should I do that for?"

"Oh, I don't know. Because I'm the sister of your friend? Because you want to help a damsel in distress?"

Sandor paused. She _was _Nikolas's little sister and that man was as old as time. But while he was happy to kill on cue, there was a difference in being a sworn sword and a murderer.

"_Or_," Isadora added, seeing his dilemma. "Because I'll give myself to you for a night."

* * *

_author's note: this is a story I've been play with for a while and I thought what better time than the lovely Rory McCann's 50th birthday to see what you all think. I'm uploading the first two chapters so let me know your thoughts and if you like it! _


	2. An understanding

Sandor cocked an eyebrow. "Your plan to get out of your arranged marriage is to fuck me?"

Isadora nodded, using her elbows to prop herself up on the bed. "I'd offer gold but I feel you would say no. This might give me a chance."

"I'm a sworn sword, not a fucking sell sword. You could spread your legs for half the assassins in King's Landing, don't need me." Despite his words, Sandor was considering the offer. It had been over a dozen years since he had seen her last and she had blossomed into a woman. Her dress showed off her cleavage and he imagined tearing it off her body to see the rest of her.

"I want to help kill him myself," came the response, stopping Sandor's train of thoughts.

"Did he hurt you, Dora?" His hand instinctively went towards the hilt of his sword.

"Not really. Not more than any other husband," she reassured him. "Not yet. But we've been married almost five years and I haven't provided a son. Both his second and third wives failed in the same task, and they both suffered...accidents."

A vein twitched near Sandor's eye. He knew all about wives having accidents - his own brother was clumsy enough to have lost two.

"You've proof? Actual proof, not rumours from stupid cunts that want to gossip?"

"I do. And he keeps guards at my door at night. Apparently his last wife thought she may have more luck with another man. She was eaten by pigs.

"At home, I'm a prisoner in a golden cage. Here, I can pretend to be delighted by ladies embroidering and fancy gardens to get some time by myself. If he found out I'd been playing knight instead of making pretty pictures I'd not be able to sit for a week...but it was worth it to see your face!"

"You bloody cheated," he grumbled.

"How else was I supposed to win? You've a foot and at least 50 pounds on me!"

Sandor snorted. The indignation of a girl.

"Well? Will you help me?" She asked. Those big eyes looked up, pleading, but Sandor felt uneasy. He wanted to do what he could to help his old friend's sister, but something didn't seem right. If the man was so bad, why had she married him? Why had Nikolas let her? And if he was afraid of her being with another man, why had he let her go with The Hound - the big bad of King's Landing?

"I'll think about it," he said roughly.

"As you wish. We're only here a week though."

* * *

Over the next day, Sandor began to look into Peckledon.

From his learnings as a child he remembered they were a noble house from the Westerlands, with ten purple stars on a yellow banner adoring his banner. The words? Unfailing. Or Unflinching. Something wanky like that. Reciting Houses wasn't his strong point.

He was able to confirm that his first wife was the only one to give birth to a son, with the son's son promised to be The Kingslayer's squire. So, a Lannister lackey he concluded.

The third wife had been eaten by pigs, although the official story was that she sleep walked right into the pigpen. A fourth wife had remarried. Of the second wife, he was unsure. He didn't want to ask Varys or Littlefinger to consult their spy networks: if he did go along with the ridiculous proposal the last thing he wanted was to draw attention to it. Also, Sandor didn't trust that smarmy git Littlefinger. He whispered wherever got him power. Varys was just as bad. For all his holier than thou 'I serve the realm,' he had just stood there when the Mad King had burned that Stark man alive. If Sandor had been there that day, he might be the one called Kingslayer. A better nickname than Hound, perhaps.

No, Sandor had to go about getting information a different way: sitting with drunk soldiers and picking up morsels of information, occasionally egging then in the right direction.

There was some light hearted banter about Sandor getting beaten at the name day tourney. Luckily this didn't last too long before the conversation turned to those who had been invited for the Prince's feast. As if it was the Prince who had anything to do with the guest list, it was filled with Lannister supporters. There was blond hair as far as the eye could see.

"Did you see Peckledon leering at the young Sarsfield girl? Two silver stags say that old bastard is on to next wife within a year," one of the gold cloaks guffawed.

"Another one? Didn't he just marry a few years ago?" Sandor tried to act casual.

"Aye, but he gets through wives like the King gets through wine. He's on his fifth at the moment. His groom told my squire that he's almost as bad as Crastor."

"The fuck is a Crastor?"

"He means Walder Frey. You know, Lord of the Crossings. He's got as many grandchildren as he does grey hairs," one of the soldiers piped up.

The original soldier scowled. "No, I mean Crastor. He's a twat from beyond the Wall who shags his daughters. Rumour has it he kills his sons and only keeps his daughters, so he can shag _them._"

"Bullshit," the second soldier snorted.

"It's not! My brother is in the Watch and told me all about the Wildling bastard."

"Nah, I believe you about the Wildling. They're all crazy. But I don't believe Peckledon would do that."

"Near enough. You ever wondered how a family can have so many stillborns and miscarriages? What if they're not and he's killing off any daughters?"

Sandor let the argument wash over him as more soldiers joined in. Maybe Dora was right. If he got confirmation from the groom, he'd agree to Dora's terms. He took a glug from his tankard as he thought about bedding her. A gentleman would refuse to protect her honour. He just wasn't sure if he was a gentleman.

* * *

Isadora winced as the old man thrusted against her again. Married for over four years and he still had not worked out the correct angle for unfettered access. She had tried, in the early days, to help him (surely it was as unpleasant for him to thrust against a hard wall of muscle at that angle as it was for her?) but had received stinging slaps for her efforts.

Now she just accepted his ineptitude. As her husband himself had put it on their wedding night '_do not piss off the person who decides the size of your cage'. _At the time she thought the comment was about the two song birds that Nikolas had given as a wedding present. Over the years, she realised she was wrong.

She closed her eyes and tried to take her mind away from her marital bed, from his too-sweet honeyed breath panting down at her. Most of the time, she tried to recite something from memory - a poem, a song, sometimes a story if he was taking his time. Other times her thoughts went to her past. This time they fled to Sandor. It had been so long since she had seen him, and she was impressed. The last time the Clegane boy had stood in front of her, he had been a lanky boy only a dozen years old. His brown hair flopped over his eyes and down his face in an effort to cover his burns. Now, he was enough of a man that a beard coated the bottom half of his face, although the long hair remained. Dora was glad. Her face flushed a little as she remembered herself at nine, desperately in love with her brother's friend.

Was it in spite of his burns, or because of it? She couldn't remember now but at the time Sandor has seemed so noble and heroic to her. He was strong for a boy and was off to fight in a war. When Dora had heard, she spent a week frantically sewing in the evenings, making a kerchief for him to take into battle with him. Three black dogs on a field of yellow, with the letters SC embroidered in the corner. He'd laughed when she handed it to him shyly. She'd almost burst into tears at that, until he'd grabbed her by the upper arm and pulled her back. "Kiss me," he said, half joking and half urgent. "I might die on the battlefield. Don't let me die without a kiss." It was the first kiss either had, a harsh peck on the lips, but it was theirs.

Dora wondered what it would be like to kiss him now, with that beard. Pendleton had a beard, but it was a small thing, a goatee at best, and sleek with oil. He wasn't fond of his beard getting ruffled with a kiss. Dora suspected Sandor didn't have such misgivings.

He had grown too, over a foot. He'd been a tall boy but now he towered over all the men. And he'd gone from gangly to muscle. He was strong and fast. Dora felt a twinge thinking about it and reached up to grab her husband's shoulder, much to his surprise. He didn't complain though, too near the edge of his own release to care. He came, with a groan that turned into a coughing fit, then stood up abruptly. Wiping himself clean, he dressed and left the room with a curt "Be ready for dinner. And don't forget you're in bloody King's Landing, not the Westerlands. Do something with that hair."

Dora didn't move on the bed. Her thoughts remained with Sandor. It was hard to fully tell what he looked like under the armour but given the strength to wield his sword and the fact she'd struggled to reach her arms around him when she'd hugged him she thought he must be one of the biggest men in the realm.

She hoped he would agree to help her. It hadn't been a plan to ask, but when she saw him again! It was as if she couldn't help herself. First in the armour and fighting him and then when he found her after it was all she could do not to jump on him there and beg for his assistance.

Dora knew she could kill her husband herself and be shot of him. He was a bad man and a coward, getting others to do his dirty work. And yet, if she could just squeeze out a son she would be free. His fourth wife had given birth to a boy and had been allowed to move away and remarry. Of course, the son had died three years later, prompting Pendleton's marriage to Isadora, but all she needed to do was get pregnant and she would be free. Easier than murder, surely? And yet, there had been no quickening of her womb. Dora wasn't stupid, she knew he was planning a new wife soon, one who could bear fruit, and that she would die for her failure.

Without even realising it, Dora's hands had slipped down her body and her index finger circled her sensitive nub as her mind wandered back to Sandor. What would it be like to kiss him now, for those big hands to grip her arms and hold her as he leaned over her? Her toes curled as she imagined it.

She was interrupted from going any further by an abrupt knock on the door. It took her a minute to get herself in a presentable state to open the door.

Dora flushed as the door creaked open to reveal Sandor himself.

"I'll do it," he grunted.

She sighed in relief. "Thank you. Thank you."

"Meet me at the Dragonpit tomorrow at 11. Out past the Street of the Sisters. No-one will hear us there."

With only the slightest inclination of his head, he left, and Dora sunk back against the wall. It was going to happen. She was going to kill her husband.


	3. In the Dragonpit

Dora had butterflies in her stomach when she woke up the next morning. She dressed with shaking hands, wishing for the first time that she had been allowed to bring her handmaiden with her to stay in King's Landing. Instead, her husband had brought his maester and his groom.

Wincing slightly, she drank her daily potion from maester Sarsfield to aid in pregnancy. She wouldn't miss the bitter taste.

She waited nervously until 10, before leaving the Red Keep. Once she got to the Street of the Sisters, Dora checked that she was alone and put up her cloak hood. Her route took her round the outskirts of Flea Bottom and she was grateful that she'd chosen a fairly plain cloak, so she wasn't grabbing attention.

When she arrived at the Dragonpit, she was surprised at how eerily quiet the place was. Despite the nature of the place, part of her had been confused why Sandor had chosen it as a meeting spot, convinced that there would be children playing Targaryens and dragons. She knew it was something Sandor and her brother would have done. Yet the tall man was the only one there.

"You came," Dora called out.

He turned to face her and his lips quirked upwards. "Did you think I would stand you up, lass?"

_Yes. "_No. But you might have changed your mind."

"I'll stand by the deal if you will." His dark eyes stared deeply into hers, and Dora had the feeling he was looking into her soul. "You're sure you want to be involved? Killing someone is harder than it sounds. The first time, anyway."

It was Dora's turn to stare. Was it killing that made the man in front of her so dour? He had been quieter after Gregor burned his face, it's true, but his reputation and the lines on his face made it seem like he never smiled. Obviously a sworn sword shouldn't be a jester, but he seemed so _serious _and it tugged at her heart.

"I'm fine. If anyone deserves the opportunity to kill him, it's me," she replied fiercely.

Sandor shrugged lightly. "I'm not denying you could take him in a sword fight. But that's different from a murder. D'you have a plan?"

"I was going to try to make it look like a robbery. Write William a letter asking him to meet somewhere and when he shows stab him and take his purse. Keep the coin, dump the empty purse a few streets away."

"And he'd come by himself to meet you?"

"Not to meet _me, _no. He'd slap me for telling him what to do. But if he thought the note was from a young girl with an eye on him?"

Sandor thought for a moment. "What if he thought it was from a Lannister? Cersei wanting his help with a plot and offering him advancement. He might be suspicious of a letter from an unknown woman, but if I gave a note from Cersei, he'd believe it. Lannister dog delivering the word of his master."

"You're _not _a dog," Dora said fiercely. "You're a man. And a good one at that." Her hand twitched - she wanted to reach out and pull him into a hug. How could a six foot something killing machine like him not believe in himself?

"For now I'm a Lannister man. And your man. Until this is done."

_My man._ Dora savoured the words. When she was a girl she'd have given anything for Sandor to be her man and him saying those words now brought a flutter back to her stomach that had nothing to do with nerves. She had planned to offer herself to him because she knew he would laugh at an offer of money, but now she was looking forward to fulfilling her end of the bargain. More butterflies rose.

"And, the payment?" She said.

"Talk about that after," came the reply, to her disappointment. Did he not want her? Had she been foolish to think he might help her out of anything other than childhood loyalty to her brother?

In fact, loyalty was what he was thinking of. Although Dora was as stubborn as ever, she had blossomed into a woman and Sandor had a strong urge to demand his payment in advance. But it was _Dora._ What would Nikolas say about it? He'd joked about it when they were younger, when Dora began to follow him with moony eyes, Gods know why, about his friend marrying his sister and making them brothers. They'd laughed at the time - mainly at the idea that Dora as a wife, but on Sandor's part there was also the idea that someone would want to marry him.

"Your pretty little head would look nice on a spike, but mine wouldn't. I want this planned," he said as way of explanation.

Maud cheered up at this (pretty!) and she allowed the conversation to be steered back around to the plot. Until everything was in place, that was.

"Will you kiss me good luck, ahead of tomorrow?" She asked, eyes sparkling. "It's customary to give a kiss before battle."

His brow furrowed in confusion. Why the fuck would she want to kiss him? Then something clicked. "This some form of fucking penance? 20 _Gentle Mother, Font of Mercy_'s and a kiss from a Hound, is that it? You think if you fuck me, your Gods will forgive you your sins? If that works, there's a dozen whores between the Westerlands and King's Landing who should be sainted."

"That's not - _no! _I just wanted to kiss you. But if you'd rather shake hands?"

Still wary, he took a step closer to Dora. He towered a foot taller than her and she wished she'd worn her heeled boots instead of flat shoes. His giant hand reached up and cupped her face and she almost melted as the calloused thumb stroked her skin. She rose onto her tiptoes as he ducked his head. She could feel his breath and the rough tickle of his beard a second before their lips connected.

Sandor made to pull back almost immediately, but Dora's hand caught hold of his hair and held him in place, insistently. After a few milliseconds he relaxed into her embrace, until he felt her tongue flick at his lips. He pulled away abruptly, wincing as he lost a few stands of hair.

"We should go back to the Keep separately. I'll give Pendleton the note tonight, asking to meet tomorrow."

Dora nodded. She felt a little dazed. It wasn't quite how she wanted the kiss to go, but she was satisfied.

The two went their separate ways. Neither saw the old fish-seller woman peer at them from the entrance of Flea Bottom.

* * *

Later that afternoon King Robert and Queen Cersei were holding court. Sandor fingered the parchment hidden in his armour. It had taken less than an hour for him to be alone in Cersei's rooms to use her seal, to add authenticity. The plan was now to slide it under Pendleton's door instead of handing it to him, just in case he told anyone about Sandor. Sandor thought Dora was being too cautious but it was her plan, so he agreed in the end.

Cersei looked obviously bored as her husband dealt with various disputes, the Hand Arryn leaning forward and whispering in the fat man's ear when needed.

Finally, the line of people lining up to whine about their neighbours dwindled and Sandor became relieved. He could slip out behind Cersei and slip the letter through Pendleton's door while he continued to mince around. He was standing with other Lords now, laughing loudly a fair few meters from Dora, who was with a few Ladies.

"Any more business?" Lord Arryn called. Most people help their tongue: it was clear Cersei was desperate for a wine and to be with her toddler son, Tommen.

"I have a charge to report, your Grace," a voice called out. The assembled mass turned round to look at the speaker. William Pendleton stepped forward.

"Yes, go on then," King Robert said, disgruntled.

Sandor's eyes looked questioningly at Dora, who pulled a face that signifies she had no idea what was happening.

The old man pulled himself up to his full height. "I accuse my wife, Isadora Pendleton, of witchcraft!"


End file.
